


A Taste of Home

by flecksofpoppy



Series: A Little Faith-verse Companion Pieces [10]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: A Little Faith-verse, Alternate Universe - 1990s, Backstory, M/M, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, Reibert - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-12 12:37:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2110194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flecksofpoppy/pseuds/flecksofpoppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bertolt and Reiner cope with Reiner's memory loss and mental issues.</p>
<p>Or: Bertolt takes a cooking class and learns that love is more complex than he realized.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This side part is literally based on an episode of [My So-Called Life](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_So-Called_Life) where Graham takes a cooking class. And I thought it was perfect because this is a 1990s AU.
> 
> In other words: Armin is Hallie Lowenthal (sort of). The file name of this document is "Bertl is Graham."
> 
> THANK YOU to [Mary](http://contentment-of-cats.tumblr.com) for literally writing the chicken paprikash section and to [somebodyslight](http://somebodyslight.tumblr.com/) for reading this like a million times. <3

“It’s extreme stress.”

Bertolt is sitting uncomfortably on a chair that seems far too small—or it could just be him—and he’s looking around nervously.

He always expected a therapist’s office to look the same way a social worker’s did, or a child psychologist—with weird toys and a whiteboard for drawing incriminating pictures.

That’s not the case here. This therapist’s office has photographs everywhere of gay rights rallies and other noble-looking social causes; LGBT organization awards of recognition; and even a photo of him and a locally famous drag queen at the annual Trost Pride Parade.

“Mr. Hoover-Braun?”

Bertolt blinks; the clock ticking on the wall sounds very loud, and he realizes that they’re still paying for the last five minutes of Reiner’s latest therapy session.

“Oh,” he says. “Are you serious?”

The therapist raises an eyebrow when he hears the response. “Do you find that surprising?”

Bertolt, although quiet, is very aware of when he’s being one-upped with the psychology; he immediately frowns.

“Look,” he says, raising an eyebrow, uncharacteristically confrontational, “I just want to help him, okay? But... he’s like a rock.” He sighs, deflating slightly; but where Reiner is concerned, Bertolt will be as aggressive as necessary. “So, I’m sorry, but I just don’t understand how that could be the case. In theory, yes, but he’s not having nightmares about our horrible childhood.” Bertolt swallows hard suddenly, wondering if he should’ve kept that to himself. “Uh... has he mentioned that?”

“Yes, he’s mentioned it,” the therapist nods reassuringly. “But what about your home life? How is he there?”

“Happy?”Bertolt says with his head tipped to the side, taken a little off guard by the question.

“He tells you about his problems? His troubles?”

Bertolt bites his lip and nervously starts to fiddle with his wedding ring. “Um...”

“Even if there are no troubles at home,” the therapist prompts, “what about at work? Even just the little annoying trivialities that we all deal with.”

“I think he likes his job, though.” Even as the words come out of his mouth, he already feels sick. “I...”

“I’m not here to interrogate you, Bertolt. I only want to help, just like you.”

Bertolt immediately puts on a stony face; no one gets in between him and Reiner. 

“Thank you,” he says stiffly, rising to his full height and straightening his sweater. He’s relieved to be out of the chair. “We’ll see you next week.”

“Bertolt,” the therapist says, giving Bertolt an evaluative look, “don’t overestimate his strength. Please call me if he has an episode.” He also gets to his feet and offers Bertolt a card.

“What does that mean?” Bertolt asks haltingly after a moment.

“It means that if you feel you need professional assistance, call me anytime. If you feel you require medical attention, on the other hand, call 911.”

That makes Bertolt sober and he looks down at the floor, pulling the sleeves of his sweater over his hands. “How will I know the difference?” he whispers.

“You’ll know,” the therapist reassures him. “But after speaking with Reiner these last few sessions, I don’t think that’s an issue. I think he just needs a lot of rest and to work through his issues. Maybe medication, if necessary.”

“Reiner will never go on pills,” Bertolt immediately replies.

“He seemed amenable to it.”

Bertolt swears his eyes must bug out of his head and his jaw drops. “What?” he replies in shock.

Reiner always said that the last thing he’d do was go on drugs for any reason.

“Is that surprising to you?”

“Yes,” Bertolt says, “it is.” He immediately starts to consider replacing the therapist, because he’s obviously brainwashed Reiner; regardless of the fact that this is the only therapist in Trost who will treat gay partners with the same courtesies as heterosexual married couples.

“I’d suggest talking to him about it.”

“I will,” Bertolt retorts, trying not to sound resentful.

When he opens the door, Reiner is sitting in the waiting room, looking anxious as he always does after Bertolt sits down with the therapist. They do this once a week with Reiner’s permission.

“Hey,” Bertolt says, trying to smile at him, “let’s get out of here.”

Reiner looks relieved and nods as he stands up.

“Reiner, will you attempt to do what we talked about?”

“Um, sure, doc.”

“I’ve already said you can call me—”

“‘Doc’ is fine,” Reiner interjects, shrugging a little. Bertolt immediately goes over to him and wraps an arm around him.

“See you next week,” the therapist says, giving a friendly little wave with his hand. The door to his office shuts, and they both exhale together.

“You ready to go home?” Bertolt asks softly, turning his head to nuzzle Reiner’s temple.

“Don’t you have to work tonight?”

“I took tonight off, remember?”

Reiner pulls away, looking at the ground and shaking his head. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Bertolt ignores the look and gets close, tipping Reiner’s face up to kiss him. “Do you not want me to cook?”

Reiner’s lips twitch with a smile, and he meets Bertolt’s eyes. “Well... if you were planning on it...”

Bertolt smiles a little, and they make their way out to Reiner’s car, holding hands. It’s nice to at least be able to stay in the gayborhood, so if they hold hands in public, for the most part they’re not bothered.

Once they’re on the road, Bertolt decides to broach the topic he’s had on his mind for the last twenty minutes.

“So,” he starts casually, shooting a glance over at Reiner, “your therapist said you’re considering meds.”

Reiner just shrugs minutely and clears his throat. Bertolt can’t read his expression, because he’s got on a ridiculous pair of day-glo orange Raybans he’s insisted on wearing. They have reflective blue lenses—slightly scratched now from living in the glove compartment—and are truly the ugliest things Bertolt has ever seen.

It’d started at a gas station one too-sunny day, and Reiner was desperate. However, they were so overpriced that he’s now determined to wear them until they break. By his logic, anything that unreasonably priced had to be used.

“Maybe,” Reiner answers carefully after a minute. “I don’t know... he’s the expert, right?”

Bertolt sets his jaw and clenches his hand. “That doesn’t sound like the Reiner I know. You hate pills.”

He can see Reiner’s cheek twitch a little, and knows it’s time to drop the subject. This tactic isn’t working.

“You know,” Bertolt continues, abandoning his line of questioning, “those sunglasses are the ugliest fucking things I’ve ever seen.”

That immediately earns a big, shit-eating grin out of Reiner, and he turns his head slightly to look at Bertolt.

“You’re just jealous because I’m fashionable.”

“Do I look like someone who cares about fashion? I still cut my own hair.”

“Correction,” Reiner retorts placidly, obviously enjoying their banter, “I cut your hair. I have been cutting your hair since you were nineteen, Bertl.”

Bertolt sighs gustily and rolls his eyes. “No wonder it’s always messed up.”

Bertolt generally does not “banter” with people. With Reiner, though, everything is different. They’ve been together for so many years—both platonically and romantically—that Bertolt doesn’t think twice about throwing out a playful quip once and while.

That, and of course, Reiner’s also his husband.

It still sounds weird; it also gives Bertolt a rush of emotion so strong that he feels like he can’t breathe, when he really processes what it means.

“Bertl,” Reiner says suddenly. His voice sounds surprisingly serious, and Bertolt immediately looks over. Reiner’s mouth is set into a tense, straight line.

“What’s up?” he asks, his eyebrows raised.

They roll to a stop at a traffic light, and Reiner looks over at Bertolt, lowering his sunglasses.

“My head is killing me,” he says, his face agonized. “Will you...” He sighs, and then shakes his head slightly. “I’m sorry, never mind.”

“Reiner,” Bertolt says softly, reaching out to quickly squeeze Reiner’s hand, “pull over and let me drive.”

“I know you hate driving in the city,” Reiner replies through gritted teeth.

“It’s okay. I’m a grown-up—I’ll survive.”

Reiner sighs again, and Bertolt can tell it takes a gargantuan effort for him to give in and pull over, and deny his instinct to simply power through it.

And Bertolt realizes that this is what Reiner does. He shoulders his own burdens and everyone else’s—everything ranging from something as simple as having a headache in the car to serious mental trauma and strain.

No. The answer is no—Bertolt never hears about Reiner’s troubles or annoying “trivialities.”

“Hey,” he says, smiling a little as Reiner kills the engine and looks down at the steering wheel. “Let me wear those ugly things. It’s too bright out.”

Reiner looks over in surprise, and to Bertolt’s delight, he smiles a little.

“They’ll go great with your crooked haircut. You look like James Bond.”

“Yeah,” Bertolt grins as they get out to switch seats, “exactly. I can pick up sexy women, right?”

As they switch places, Reiner smiles at him, his eyes squinting in the sun.

“I don’t think so,” he retorts, settling into the passenger seat.

Bertolt climbs into the driver’s side, and then leans across the armrest to kiss Reiner. “I don’t think so, either.”

They drive on in silence, and Reiner slowly falls asleep, the car lulling him into a haze.

As Bertolt pulls into the parking lot of their building and parks the car, he laughs a little to himself before throwing the sunglasses into the glove compartment.

“Hey,” he says softly, poking Reiner’s upper arm, “we’re home.”

Reiner immediately shoots up and looks around wildly in a panic, the seat creaking, before staring straight at Bertolt.

Bertolt’s stomach drops as tears immediately spring to Reiner’s eyes, and he lets out a small sob.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “Did you just kiss me? Did I pull away again?”

“Reiner...” Bertolt says, shaking his head incredulously.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, hiding his face in his hands as he starts to cry. “I’m sorry for abandoning you, and leaving you in the car by yourself...”

He shudders, practically sobbing. “Was that just now? Bertl...” He drops his hands to stare at Bertolt, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Bertolt says, his mind jumpstarting. “It’s okay. No, that was in high school.” He lowers his voice to a soothing tone and takes Reiner’s hand, showing him their rings. “See? We’re married now. Remember?”

Reiner just stares at the rings for a moment, sniffling a little, and then he nods.

“I’m sorry for being like this, Bertl,” he whispers harshly after a minute, not moving his eyes. “I know you didn’t sign up for this.”

“I didn’t sign up for anything,” Bertolt replies, unable to stop the harsh tone of his voice. He calms his temper—he’s not angry so much as emotional—and then finally says, “I signed up for you. Just you, and whatever comes with it. All right?”

Reiner hazards a look up, and Bertolt meets his eyes encouragingly. He puts on a little, bittersweet smile as he says, “Did you think you’d see the day when I’d try to get _you_ to look at _me_?”

That makes Reiner smile fractionally, and he takes a shuddery breath.

“Are you ready to go upstairs now?” Bertolt asks.

Reiner nods, but then says very softly, “Please don’t let me fall asleep by myself again.”

It’s true that every time Reiner falls asleep alone—without Bertolt literally right beside him—he has a nightmare and gets confused.

“Okay,” Bertolt replies, giving a firm nod.

He knows he’s going to have to change his shift at the restaurant to adjust to Reiner’s sleep schedule, although that shouldn’t be too hard, now that Reiner’s been part-time for a good three months.

Nevertheless, he still works first shift, and his and Bertolt’s sleeping patterns overlap somewhat, but not completely. It’s been like that since the beginning, but they always liked it.

Now, it’s impractical. But Bertolt’s not worried; he may not be the most talented person in the world, but he knows he’s at least dependable, and so far, his employer has shown admirable understanding about his situation with Reiner. That, and everyone likes Reiner.

He feels suddenly like he needs to spend far more time holding Reiner than he has recently.

= = =

To Bertolt’s relief, he’s able to get his shift changed without a problem. He also finds he also didn’t realize what he was missing out on—going to bed with Reiner every night, cooking for him at a normal hour in the evening when most people eat dinner, instead of at midnight.

They’re lying in bed one night, and it’s early—nine p.m.—and Bertolt amuses himself by thinking that they really are an old married couple at the ripe ages of twenty-three. (Not to mention Reiner, who’ll be twenty-four in a matter of weeks.)

“Mm,” Reiner says in a sleepy, sated voice, “that was amazing. Thanks for dinner, Bertl.”

Bertolt curls up behind Reiner and kisses the back of one broad shoulder. He closes his eyes and inhales; Reiner always smells like a combination of aftershave, a pleasant musk that’s very faint but masculine, and clean laundry. It’s the most comforting smell Bertolt has ever encountered, and he closes his eyes as he wraps his arm around Reiner’s waist.

“You smell good,” he murmurs, smiling lazily.

He’s only wearing a pair of sleep pants himself, and Reiner’s completely naked.

“Bertl,” Reiner says suddenly, his voice sounding oddly emotional.

“Yeah?” Bertolt asks quietly.

“You’ll... stay here?” he asks. Bertolt is taken aback when he hears tears in Reiner’s voice, but he knows that drawing attention to it isn’t the answer right now.

“Of course I’ll stay here,” Bertolt answers softly. “I changed my shift so we can go to sleep together every night.”

“I mean,” he says in a small voice, “you’ll stay with me?”

“Reiner...” Bertolt replies softly in shock. He’s filled with bitter hurt that anything else could even be a possibility, but then he remembers the therapist’s words.

He has to let Reiner be the one to share troubles; this is about Reiner.

So Bertolt fights the bile in his throat down, fights the urge to cry, to even get angry, and says very softly, “I’ll never leave you. Ever.”

The truth is that Bertolt would never survive without Reiner. Once upon a time, he might have thought that because he considered himself weak; now, he wouldn’t survive because he simply wouldn’t want to. Reiner is as much a part of Bertolt as his own heart; without it beating, he can’t live.

“I’m sorry, Bertl.”

“Don’t apologize,” Bertolt says gently. He strokes Reiner’s skin slowly, letting his fingers brush over the planes of muscle and the curve of ribs. “Just relax.”

Reiner sighs, but then to Bertolt’s relief, he feels Reiner’s muscles slowly relax, and he exhales heavily.

“Tell me about your day,” Bertolt suggests quietly, trying not to disturb the calmness of the room.

Reiner grunts introspectively, and then shrugs a little. “Uh, I didn’t really do anything special.”

Bertolt smiles a little, kissing the back of Reiner’s head. “Well, tell me about what you didn’t do.”

“I... went to the gym,” Reiner starts uncertainly. “And then, I came back here.”

Bertolt fights the urge to sigh. For the past two weeks, he’s asked Reiner what his day was like _every night_ to try and get him to open up naturally, get used to talking about life without the lens of protectiveness and caution he always filters everything through for Bertolt.

But this time, to Bertolt’s surprise, suddenly Reiner continues talking.

“I looked through our scrapbook,” he blurts out. Bertolt can tell from the quick intake of breath that Reiner didn’t mean to let that detail spill out, but he just waits patiently.

“Oh,” he replies, “any reason?”

“I said some really terrible shit to you in high school,” he whispers suddenly. “I’m sorry.”

Bertolt bites his lip; his first instinct is to shush Reiner and tell him it’s okay, but that’s obviously not getting them anywhere.

Two sessions ago, during one of his meetings with Reiner’s therapist, it’d been suggested that Bertolt try a different tactic to helping Reiner work through his guilt issues. So Bertolt decides to put it to the test.

“Well,” he says patiently, “I forgave you for that a long time ago. So, tell me some stuff you found that was happy.”

That seems to take Reiner off guard, but he also seems to have an answer that’s just as fast. Maybe that therapist isn’t as much of a quack as Bertolt first thought.

“Well...” he replies slowly, “um...”

“Yeah?”

Bertolt feels a sense of relief wash over him as Reiner says quietly, “Do you remember... that one time, you got an A on your report card...”

Bertolt starts to laugh. “The only straight A grades I ever got... in Home Ec.”

Reiner laughs a little, too. “Well,” he says, “I’ll never forget that day we got our reports cards. I think I got straight B’s... and you had a couple B’s and C’s.”

Everyone always said that Bertolt didn’t apply himself. Bertolt thinks this conclusion is ridiculous; even if he tried harder, nothing would happen.

“But you got an A in Home Ec,” Reiner repeats softly, “and you were so excited, Bertl. That was the first time I’d ever seen that expression on your face. You looked...”

Bertolt is rather enraptured by this story, because he has no idea what Reiner’s going to say.

“I looked what?” he asks curiously. It is a fond memory.

“...Happy,” Reiner finishes softly.

“I’m happy,” Bertolt replies immediately. “I’m happy with you.”

“I’m happy with you, too,” Reiner replies immediately, grabbing Bertolt’s hand. “But I want you to do something for me. I want you to take a cooking class.”

Bertolt immediately tenses, and he can already feel the sweat forming on his forehead.

“Why?” he whispers immediately. He doesn’t _want_ to take a cooking class. He wants to cook for Reiner—and close friends, like Jean and Marco, and maybe his coworkers once in a while—but that’s it. The thought of people watching him and tasting his food is too intense.

“Bertl, you’re hyperventilating.”

Reiner rolls over to face him and pull Bertolt close.

“I’m not telling you to go to culinary school or start your own restaurant,” he says softly, stroking Bertolt’s hair. “I’m just asking you to _try_ to pursue something...” he sighs, hesitating, but finishes anyway, “you’re _really_ fucking good at. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true.”

“But... why?” Bertolt whispers, hiding his face against Reiner’s chest and curling against him.

“It would make me feel good, okay?” Reiner replies. “Would you try it... for me? If you don’t like it, then stop going. I wouldn’t ask you to do something you _dislike_... but I’m asking you to try it just once. That’s all.”

Bertolt grumbles a little, but he takes a deep breath to inhale Reiner’s scent, closes his eyes, and finally nods quickly. “I’ll try it,” he whispers. “Once. If it’s awful...” just the thought makes him feel sick, but he regains his bearings.

“If it’s awful,” Reiner finishes, “don’t go back.”

“Okay,” Bertolt says, not believing his own ears.

“My therapist said he thinks we worry about each other too much,” Reiner blurts out.

“Do you think he’s right?” Bertolt whispers.

“Well,” Reiner replies thoughtfully, “not exactly. He doesn’t know us. But... I don’t know. Of all the possible solutions that have come up—antidepressants, hypnotism, _whatever_ —that advice is the least...”

“Extreme?” Bertolt finishes.

“Yeah,” Reiner says softly. “He’s supposed to be an expert, so... well, it can’t hurt, right? For you to do something just your own, and for me...” he sighs as his voice trails off. “Well, I need to figure my shit out.”

“Yeah,” Bertolt replies softly. He shifts a little to stroke Reiner’s bare back with his fingers lightly. “Okay, deal.”

Reiner kisses Bertolt’s forehead. “I left out one of those continuing ed. pamphlets they always leave in our mailbox.”

“Is it expensive?”

“Not really,” Reiner says with a shrug. “It’s not free, but we can skim the top of our savings.”

Bertolt sighs; he knows there’s no point in arguing. “Okay,” he agrees grudgingly. However, now that the subject has been broached, to his own surprise, his interest is substantially piqued. He _was_ good at Home Ec—his grades proved that at least.

“I wonder what kind of courses they offer,” he muses, thinking aloud. “I wonder if they do anything with—” He cuts himself off abruptly and stops talking, feeling very silly for being picky. “That was a stupid question,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I’ll just take whatever looks easiest.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Reiner replies quietly, his voice a little sad. Bertolt can tell he wants to say something else, and suddenly, it becomes apparent that Reiner is filtering himself even now, walking on eggshells.

It strikes Bertolt more clearly than ever, right now, that Reiner doesn’t want to put any weight on him.

“What else were you going to say?” Bertolt asks softly.

Reiner sighs again, but gives in. “I was going to say—and don’t just flat out deny it—that it’s amazing you’ve never had any training.”

“Um,” Bertolt shrugs a little, starting to blush, “well, I did in high school.”

That gets an actual laugh as Reiner shakes his head. “You’ve got a talent,” Reiner says softly, brushing the hair out of Bertolt’s face tenderly, “and you should use it. Or at least see what it’s like to really pursue it. Just to feel what it’s like, right?”

“I guess,” Bertolt says grudgingly. “But... if I don’t like it, and I only want to cook for you and our friends...”

“I don’t expect anything, Bertl. I just want you to give it a shot. Who knows what might happen?”

“Uh, I make an idiot of myself in front of everyone because I forget the difference between adobo and saffron?”

“I don’t even know what saffron is.”

“You ate it last night.”

Reiner smiles at him a little, and Bertolt returns the smile. “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Reiner replies softly after a few moments. 

Bertolt nods. “Okay,” he agrees simply. “I’ll try.”

Reiner seems a little more at ease, and he settles down on his back with Bertolt’s head in the crook of his shoulder, fingers brushing idly over Bertolt’s hair.

“I’m really happy we’re going to sleep together,” he says, almost absentmindedly, and then suddenly pulls away slightly to stare at Bertolt in embarrassment. “I... I didn’t mean...” He looks upset, and Bertolt shakes his head in confusion.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, frowning a little. “I’m happy we’re going to sleep together, too.”

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was guilt tripping you,” Reiner explains hurriedly.

Bertolt sighs silently and shakes his head, propping himself up on an elbow. “That didn’t even cross my mind,” he replies softly. “You have to stop... doing this.”

“Doing what?” Reiner asks in a defeated, quiet voice.

“Worrying all the time,” Bertolt says, rubbing his thumb idly over the ball of Reiner’s shoulder. “Feeling guilty.”

Reiner bites his lip and doesn’t make eye contact.

“Listen,” Bertolt says decisively, “I’ll take this cooking class, but you have to do something for me.”

“Okay,” Reiner replies, a curious expression on his face. “What is it?”

“You have to tell me about at least one shitty part of your day.”

“Um,” Reiner looks puzzled, “what if nothing bad happened?”

“That’s fine,” Bertolt nods. “But the point is...” he sighs wearily. “The point is to not shoulder it alone.”

“Okay,” Reiner says softly, and unexpectedly moves forward to embrace Bertolt tightly. “I’m sorry, Bertl.” He shakes his head a little. “I’ll try.”

“I know,” Bertolt replies, embracing Reiner in return. “Do you not think I’m strong enough?”

“It’s not that,” Reiner whispers, taking a shuddery breath in. “I just don’t want to... weigh you down.”

“You’ve taken care of me my entire life, Reiner,” Bertolt murmurs.

“We’ve taken care of each other,” Reiner corrects in a whisper. “Haven’t we?”

“No, you’re right,” Bertolt replies, nodding in agreement. He closes his eyes and inhales the scent of Reiner’s skin. “You can’t keep blaming yourself for things you’ve already been forgiven for, though.”

Reiner sighs, and then says softly after a moment. “I’ll try if you will.”

“Yeah,” Bertolt agrees, getting close and pressing a kiss to Reiner’s lips. He kisses back, wrapping strong arms around Bertolt; the wind chime tinkles quietly as a slight breeze blows through the open window.

Bertolt smiles a little as he pushes Reiner onto his back, kissing at his neck and collar bones, sliding his hand down to Reiner’s hip.

Reiner sighs, stiffening; Bertolt carefully controls his breathing to not give away his disappointment.

“I’m just not...” he says in a hushed voice, already apologetic.

“That’s okay,” Bertolt replies immediately, sidling up next to him and stretching his leg across Reiner’s hips.

They haven’t had sex in at least four months now.

After a conversation that bordered on tears, Bertolt was finally reassured that it wasn’t _him_ ; Reiner just isn’t feeling it.

Regardless of the fact that their sex life is the opposite of vanilla, Bertolt knows very well that Reiner still has unexpected issues with sex. He has to be in the right mood, but when he feels emotionally stripped bare, he falters.

The flipside of being a caretaker is also being a control freak without even realizing.

And Reiner has been feeling completely off kilter for a number of months now. It throws him off so badly he completely loses his sex drive, his confidence, and—Bertolt assumes—spends most of his energy trying to fight off the urge to immediately emotionally withdraw.

Even now, he’s staring at Bertolt with an anxious expression, an apology on his lips.

“I said it’s okay,” Bertolt cuts him off. He doesn’t mean for his voice to sound harsh, but it does anyway. “Why won’t you believe me?”

Reiner’s mouth snaps shut, and Bertolt realizes he has tears welling in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Bertolt immediately corrects himself softly. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“You have needs, though,” Reiner replies, biting his lip.

Bertolt snorts and shakes his head, stretching to kiss Reiner on the mouth. “The only thing I need is you.”

“But—”

Bertolt shakes his head.

Reiner sighs in defeat, but then looks at Bertolt hesitantly. “Um...”

Bertolt waits expectantly, until softly prompting, “Yeah?

“Will you rub my back?” Reiner asks softly. Normally, he’d have no problem asking for it; but after rejecting Bertolt’s advances, he still feels guilty.

Bertolt is proud of him for asking, getting past his guilt enough to reach out, and he smiles softly.

“Sure. Here, roll over,” he prompts, looping his finger in an indication for Reiner to turn over.

He loves the feeling of Reiner’s muscles relaxing under his fingers—the broad, powerful torso and arms—a body he has loved for his entire life for different reasons at different times.

Reiner lets out a little sigh, and Bertolt kisses the back of his head.

“Just relax,” he encourages softly, working out the kinks and tightness in Reiner’s muscles. Unsurprisingly, he’s wound as tight as a spring.

Finally, Reiner starts to snore, completely out.

Bertolt spoons him and situates Reiner’s head under his chin, protectively embracing him.

“No bad dreams, right?” he asks softly, reaching down to twine their fingers together.

He feels anxiety rush through him as Reiner suddenly makes a sound in his sleep; but then Bertolt almost laughs when he mumbles, obviously caught in a different type of dream, _“Oh my god, Bertl, this is so good. What’s in this,”_ he pauses taking a deep breath and giving a relaxed, long sigh. _“Mm,”_ he says softly, his voice very tender, _“this tastes like home.”_

Bertolt feels his heart start to beat beat a little faster, and he presses a kiss against the top of Reiner’s head.

Maybe that cooking class wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

= = =

It’s seven p.m.—the class was supposed to start at six forty-five—and Bertolt is standing nervously at one of the cooking stations, trying not to sweat and stealing looks at his fellow classmates.

The class was listed as “Introduction to the Culinary Arts” with a learning level marked as “beginner.” Reiner had insisted repeatedly that Bertolt shouldn’t enroll in a beginner’s class, until finally, the only thing that shut him down was Bertolt threatening to renege on his agreement to even take the class.

Overall, after a cursory glance, he feels a little more relaxed since most of his classmates look about as clueless as he feels. It’s a small class, with only about nine students, and most of them are staring at the burner and mixing bowls as if they’re from outer space.

“Hi,” says a friendly voice.

Bertolt looks up with wide eyes, unsure if he’s being spoken to.

Judging from the expectant look from the guy across from him who’s sharing his burner station, he’s waiting for an answer.

“Hi,” Bertolt manages to spit out hoarsely.

They stare at each other, and then two very blue (and, Bertolt notes, very intense) eyes crinkle as he smiles.

“I’m Armin. Nice to meet you,” he says, holding out his hand in a friendly gesture.

“Um,” Bertolt swallows nervously. Then he repeats, “Hi,” awkwardly, and sticks out his hand.

It’s not that he’s incapable of being social without Reiner; he just usually chooses not to. He’s okay with his coworkers and his and Reiner’s shared friends; but otherwise, he tends to panic. Reiner has told him repeatedly that he’s an amazing person anyone would be lucky to have as a friend, even though that’s only half of the problem.

The other half is that Bertolt likes to keep to himself. It’s a preference, and not out of fear; he just doesn’t know how to relate to people easily, and he prefers to limit his interpersonal relationships voluntarily.

_Breathe, Bertl. All he did was say hello._

“Hi,” he repeats more strongly, offering his own hand to shake Armin’s. “Uh, nice to meet you.”

Is that what people say?

Armin’s smile widens and he nods his head.

_Yes. One point for you, Hoover-Braun._

The thought of his last name suddenly makes Bertolt feel a little better—and boosts his confidence—so he feels brave enough to say his own name.

“I’m Bertolt,” he replies. “But everyone calls me Bertl.”

“Is it okay if I call you Bertl, too?” Armin asks, tipping his head to the side. His hair is long, and he’s got a blue streak in the back, which Bertolt can’t help but stare at.

“Yeah, sure,” he replies, immediately warming up to Armin since he actually _asked_. That, and his blue hair is rather fascinating.

Armin laughs a little, giving a sheepish smile. “It’s blue, I know. Um, it was a friend’s idea. For a concert we went to.”

Bertolt raises an eyebrow. “It’s... cool. I have a friend who would probably like it.”

There’s embarrassed laughter, and to his own surprise, Bertolt cracks a smile.

“I’m not really the blue hair type,” Armin says, crossing his arms over his chest with a slight laugh. He’s a good deal shorter than Bertolt, but obviously strong throughout his shoulders and arms. He was probably a small kid, though.

“Neither am I,” Bertolt confides, giving a timid laugh.

“I’m more of the—”

“Hello, class!” sings a voice as someone walks through the door. “I had something to do, so we’re starting late tonight.”

Armin gives Bertolt a sideways glance, raising his eyebrow slightly and looking nonplussed; Bertolt has to fight the urge to laugh.

Maybe Reiner was right—this wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“I’m Hitch, and I’ll be your instructor,” says a small woman as she takes her place at the front of the classroom. “I’m sure you’re all ready to get started, so please,” she grins a little, her expression lazy, “go ahead and experiment. I’ll just be here, watching your progress.”

Bertolt now looks directly over at Armin in disbelief; the look on Armin’s face mirrors his own.

“Um,” Armin says timidly, raising his hand and cringing, “aren’t you supposed to... instruct us?”

“Oh,” Hitch laughs, “for that, you’ll need to take my next class, where more advanced lessons are taught.”

Bertolt is aware of that class, and it costs twice as much.

“So, we’re just supposed to...” Armin trails off, making a face.

Apparently, all of their classmates have decided to simply to do as told, so Bertolt shrugs.

“We can make chicken paprikash,” he offers. It’s the easiest thing he can think of.

“What’s that?” Armin asks, his eyes wide.

Bertolt turns to start gathering ingredients—and substitutes, since it’s a relatively incomplete set they’ve been given—and turns to Armin with a slight smile, feeling more confident.

“It’s just chicken in a paprika sauce. She's only got the hot paprika instead of the sweet paprika, so it's going to be spicy,” he replies with a shrug, pulling over the cutting board to start chopping onions. “You know, I’m sure everyone knows how to make it.”

“Uh...” Armin replies, raising one fine eyebrow as he watches Bertolt dump the onions into the mixing bowl. He rolls up his shirt sleeves, as if eager to help, “I don’t think so.”

“Really?” Bertolt asks in disbelief, his hands moving as he speaks. “I mean, it’s not hard... you can get the recipe out of any cookbook.”

Armin is staring at the mixing bowl in disbelief, and he looks up at Bertolt again.

“Wait, what’d you just put in?”

Bertolt stops and looks at him with a confused expression. “Just smoked paprika. Nothing fancy.”

“What’s ‘fancy’ to you?” Armin replies, both eyebrows raised now.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Bertolt says with a snort. “I don’t like making fancy stuff. I just like making what I think people will want to eat mostly.”

Armin smiles at him and nods. “That’s cool. Uh, I don’t know how to make this. Will you teach me?”

There’s a slight pause as Bertolt feels the blush rising in his cheeks, but he pushes past it, thinking of Reiner and how much he wanted Bertolt to take the class. And, truth be told, he doesn’t hate it yet.

“Sure,” he croaks, trying to clear his throat. “Um, there’s not much to teach.”

Pretty soon, there are four other people gathered around their station, watching.

“Wait, so... what’s a ‘pinch,’ anyway?”

Bertolt demonstrates what he considers a pinch.

“And what’s that... wait, so you keep the burner that low?”

“Do you always put that much in?”

“Does anyone have a pen?”

By the time the class is finished—and has run over by half an hour—eight other people are sampling Bertolt’s dish and he’s trying not to disappear into the floor as there are numerous “ahs” and “ohs” and “wows” coming from his classmates.

Everyone thanks him (Hitch left at nine on the dot) and Bertolt is practically hiding under his station by the end. He takes a long time to gather up his things, when Armin suddenly appears there, too, crouched on the ground across from him.

“Hey, Bertl,” he says in a conspiratorial whisper, “are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Probably not?” he squeaks, remaining where he is. “I’m, um... just getting my pencil and bag and stuff.”

Armin nods. “You should teach this class.”

Bertolt hits his head on the counter as he tries to stand up abruptly, and then groans.

“Are you okay?” Armin cries, his mouth hanging open as he stands up, too. “I’m sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Bertolt groans, holding his head. “I’m used to it. You bump into a lot of things when you’re tall.”

“I didn’t mean to surprise you,” Armin exclaims. “I’m really sorry!”

Bertolt gives him a weak smile. “No, really—it’s fine.”

“Hey!” one of their classmates says, “Thanks, Bertolt! I’ll see you next week. Can you show us some more cool stuff?”

“Uh, sure,” Bertolt replies awkwardly.

“See?” Armin whispers, poking Bertolt in the shoulder. He immediately shies away, but Armin doesn’t say anything; he just pulls his finger back immediately, as if taking the hint, and keeps talking. “Everyone wants to learn from you.”

Bertolt shrugs dismissively, feeling supremely mortified now, as he slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Sorry... uh, I don’t know if I’m coming back next week. I might have to do something else.”

“Oh,” Armin replies, his face falling, “okay. I was really looking forward to learning about rizi-bizi. That thing you said went on the side?”

Bertolt can’t help himself. “It’s like a risotto,” he explains, “but it’s not hard. I’m sure Hitch can show you.”

Armin just makes a face, and Bertolt can’t help but crack a small smile. “Okay, maybe not,” he concedes.

“Will you please come back?” Armin asks in a pleading voice. “Just for that?”

“Well,” Bertolt mumbles, looking at the floor, “um, I guess... if you really want to learn...”

“I do!” Armin exclaims, the cheer back in his voice. “Hey, do you want to go for coffee? It’s not that late, and we can talk about it more.” He smiles encouragingly, his vivid blue eyes excited and bright.

Bertolt immediately steps back, feeling cornered. “Um, I’m married,” he blurts out, holding up his ring like it’s a protective shield.

To his surprise, though, Armin laughs and looks a little embarrassed. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like _that._ ”

“Oh!” Bertolt laughs in relief. “Okay.”

“I just mean...” Armin starts. “Well, do you want to hang out? I’d really like to hear more about how you learned how to cook.”

Bertolt deliberates for a moment; it’s still early, since he and Reiner generally don’t go to bed until ten or eleven.

“Yeah, okay. Let me just... um...” he’s not sure how Armin will react, but then realizes he doesn’t care. “Let me call my husband and tell him I’m going to be late.”

Armin doesn’t bat an eye, smiling as if he doesn’t even notice that Bertolt has a husband.

“Okay,” he replies. “Thanks! I’m sure you’re really busy. Are you a professional chef?”

Reiner wholeheartedly agrees and encourages him to go, and Bertolt actually has a good time with Armin.

It’s the first friend he’s made in his entire life without Reiner being around.

= = =

“So,” the therapist starts, leaning back in his cushy chair across from Bertolt, “Reiner tells me you’re taking a cooking class.”

Bertolt shifts uncomfortably. He hates this part of the week.

“Um, yeah,” he confirms simply. He settles his hands in his lap where he’s sitting on the too-small chair, trying not to fidget.

“And how are you finding it?”

“I thought we were supposed to talk about Reiner,” he interrupts, frowning mildly, but not making eye contact.

“Reiner said it was his idea. He wants you to have a good time,” the therapist remarks. Bertolt hates the tone of his voice—it’s probing.

“I’m having a good time,” he confirms stiffly, frowning slightly. “And yeah, that’s right—it was his idea.”

Bertolt knows he shouldn’t be hostile, but he has a long, long history of hating people that poke at his psyche like he’s a lab specimen.

When he doesn’t say anything else, the therapist smoothly keeps talking.

“So, are you good at cooking?”

Bertolt’s not expecting the question, and he falters. “Um... no, I wouldn’t say that,” he replies carefully, biting his lip. “I just like to do it.”

“Why do you think Reiner wanted you to take a class?”

“Because he thinks I’m good at cooking.”

The therapist raises an eyebrow, and then leans forward casually to balance his forearms on his knees, looking Bertolt right in the eyes.

Regardless of the intense stare, Bertolt immediately feels less anxious when he puts the evil little notepad aside.

“So, why do you think Reiner thinks you’re good at cooking, but you think you’re not?”

“Um,” Bertolt mumbles, looking down and wringing his hands as he starts to sweat, “I don’t know. Maybe he just likes really horrible food.”

A laugh rings out in the office, and Bertolt looks up in surprise.

“Reiner brought some leftovers one day,” he says unexpectedly. “Count two of us who like horrible food.”

He hesitates, but then mumbles after a moment, “Um, someone said I should teach the class.”

“Reiner mentioned it’s a beginner’s class?” he says, crossing his legs. “You probably should, then.”

“But I don’t know if I want to.”

The therapist nods with a sage look. “That’s a perfectly legitimate reason for saying no, Bertolt.”

“I haven’t told Reiner,” he blurts out.

“Why not?” the therapist prompts.

Bertolt falls into the trap, and immediately replies, “Because I couldn’t say no once I told him.”

Then, out comes the pad, the scratch of the pen, and Bertolt curses himself; he’s not expecting the tears that immediately burn at his eyes, and he gets up abruptly.

“It doesn’t matter,” he grits out, crossing his arms over his chest defensively and taking two steps toward the door, “I’m going to tell him, anyway. So whatever little game you’re playing isn’t going to work.”

The therapist gives a confused expression, and raises his eyebrows; he looks genuinely surprised by the outburst.

They just stare at each other for a moment, until the therapist speaks. “Have you ever spoken to a therapist of your own, Bertolt?”

“No,” Bertolt retorts staunchly, scowling outright now.

“Forgive me for being blunt, but it seems you have some self-esteem issues.”

“No shit,” Bertolt bites out, fighting the bile in his throat. “I don’t want to talk about this, I don’t want a therapist, and we’re _supposed_ to be talking about Reiner. What are we even paying you for?”

There’s a tense silence, until the older man leans back in his chair with a delicate look and meets Bertolt’s eyes. He clears his throat, and finally says, “Reiner has told me a great deal about your shared experiences as children.”

Bertolt is proud of himself that day for not just throwing up right there in the therapist’s office.

He does it at home, and then cries inconsolably as Reiner holds him close, whispering over and over, “I’m sorry.”

For once, Bertolt can’t bring himself to accept the apology, even though he knows Reiner didn’t do anything wrong.

= = =

Hitch simply stops showing up after the third class when Bertolt teaches everyone to make Roasted Chicken with Asiago Polenta and Truffled Mushrooms (Armin offers to bring the fancy cheese). No one even notices, and it’s only when someone asks—very plaintively with a desperately hopeful look—if Bertolt will cook for a formal dinner party they’re having, that he decides he needs to tell Reiner what’s been going on.

He also realizes, as he says he’ll have to check his calendar, two important things: he’s not outright refusing, and he’s also taken over teaching a cooking class without even realizing until this very moment.

“Hey, Bertl,” Armin says as he cleans up his station, zipping the plastic bags tight with his leftovers in it, “you should invite your husband along some time so we can all hang out afterwards. We could have a potluck or something!”

Bertolt swallows hard and tries to smile as he zips up his backpack.

“Yeah, that’d be cool. I’ll ask him.”

Armin gives him a sheepish little smile. “Okay, maybe that’s just a lame excuse to eat your food outside of class.”

“Oh,” Bertolt replies, feeling his cheeks heat for the umpteenth time, “sure.”

Armin studies him for a moment, and Bertolt feels himself start to sweat. He likes Armin, but he’s still getting used to being in the position he finds himself in now: the center of attention with new friends and an unexpected sense of purpose.

“You’ve never had any formal training, have you?” Armin guesses suddenly.

Bertolt fights the urge to immediately withdraw into himself; instead, he just shrugs minutely. “See? I shouldn’t be teaching a class. I’m just an amateur.”

“Wow,” Armin says breathlessly, staring at Bertolt with open wonder, “that’s _amazing._ ”

“Um, what’s amazing?” Bertolt replies, raising an eyebrow and forgetting his nervousness momentarily.

“That you’ve never had any training. I mean, you’re just so... humble about it,” Armin explains in an awed voice. “To be honest, that’s what tipped me off. Most people would have a big ego by now.”

Bertolt throws his backpack over his shoulder and looks at the floor. His first instinct is to immediately dismiss the adjective “amazing,” but he stops himself this time.

He can chalk up Reiner telling him he’s talented because it’s Reiner, Jean just likes to eat, and Marco is too nice about everything. His coworkers have always told him he’s amazing, but they’re biased because they just want someone to cook for them.

But Armin... Armin is a new friend, unbiased by anything.

“You’re really talented, Bertl,” Armin insists with a warm smile.

And Bertolt does something he’s never done in his life. 

He looks at Armin, smiles subtly, and replies quietly, “Thanks.”

Armin smiles more broadly and nods. “No problem. Hey, so ask your husband about the potluck thing. I think it’d be fun, and I’d host. I have a pretty big place.”

“That could be good. I’ll let you know what he says.”

“Here!” Armin replies enthusiastically, grabbing a pen and a napkin. “Take my number and let me know.”

As he’s scribbling it down, Bertolt is starting to feel a little put on the spot and self-conscious over Armin’s unbridled enthusiasm about hanging out.

His face must show it, too, because when Armin looks up, he hesitates. “I’m sorry if I’m being too forward,” he says, pulling the napkin back a little and looking down. “Um... to be honest, I recently ended a long-term relationship, and I’m trying to make new friends. That’s why I took a cooking class.”

Bertolt immediately feels terrible, because Armin interpreted his expression all wrong. 

“Oh,” he says awkwardly, looking down, too, “sorry. Um...” He bites his lip, but he fights to keep talking; this is one time when Reiner isn’t here to magically read his mind and understand what he’s trying to say. “It’s not you. I’m just... shy. Don’t be sorry.”

Armin looks up in surprise, and then smiles a little with half of his mouth. “Thanks, Bertl. I used to be pretty shy, too,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Unsure of myself even. It took a long time to have faith in myself.”

“Oh,” Bertolt says lamely, not expecting Armin to understand. “Um, okay, thanks. So...” he reaches out awkwardly to take the napkin out of Armin’s hand. “I’ll call you when I talk to Reiner.”

“That’s your husband?”

“Oh,” Bertolt says, smiling a little, “yeah. Reiner Hoover-Braun. Um, the Braun comes from him.”

Armin gives what looks like a sad little smile, and Bertolt immediately feels an unexpected feeling of sympathy wash over him.

“That’s nice,” he says simply. “How long have you been married?”

Bertolt’s first thought is to say they’ve never _not_ been married, until he realizes that Armin means what normal people consider marriage. With rings, and proper dedications of love.

“Under a year,” he replies. “But we’ve been together for a really long time.”

“Wow, he must eat like a king.”

That gets a laugh out of Bertolt. “He sort of... forced me to take this class.”

“I’m really glad he’s so persuasive,” Armin declares excitedly. “I’ve learned more from you in the past three sessions than reading three-hundred cookbooks!”

Bertolt is at his compliment max finally, and he ducks his head, blushing, as he throws his bag over his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and escapes toward the door. Armin follows, letting up on the praise, and they leave together and shut the lights off.

“Call me if you want,” Armin says as they reach the front doors of the building. “If not, I’ll just see you next class.” He gives a cheery wave and goes in the opposite direction of Bertolt, walking down the cold street with his hands in his pockets.

Armin is pretty okay. 

Reiner’s waiting right out front, probably sitting there with the heat blasting and half-asleep, and Bertolt suddenly feels very excited to see him.

As he swings the door open, Reiner snorts a little from he’s been dozing, and turns his head to smile sleepily at Bertolt.

“Hey,” he says as Bertolt gets in and pulls the door shut behind him.

The car is indeed warm, and Reiner blinks as he finds his lucidity again, reaching down in the cup holder for the coffee he has. Nestled in the other cup holder is a hot chocolate for Bertolt—his favorite—and he feels suddenly optimistic.

“Hey,” he replies, smiling despite himself and leaning over to kiss Reiner. “Thanks for waiting. Class ran over.”

Reiner smiles and nods, leaning over to kiss Bertolt again; he tastes like coffee. 

“Got you hot chocolate,” he says, pointing down at the cup.

“Thanks,” Bertolt replies, lifting the cup to take a slow sip and smiling a little as the sweetness of chocolate fills his mouth. 

He looks over at Reiner and suddenly feels love well in him. It’s a slightly different feeling now than in the past, though—more joyful, rather than solemn. He’s simply happy to be here with Reiner in the car, drinking hot chocolate on a brisk fall evening. 

Reiner’s wearing a knitted hat with reindeer on it, and it’s possibly the most ridiculous thing that Bertolt’s ever seen. He’d fished it out of a bargain bin at some discount store they’d been at, insisting that for ninety-nine cents, the hat was calling his name.

There’s even a pom-pom.

“Nice hat,” he says playfully, tweaking the pom-pom. Reiner looks over at him and smiles in surprise, as if he’s not expecting the action.

“You’re in a good mood,” he remarks, reaching over to seize the hot chocolate and steal a sip, before handing it back to Bertolt. “So, this is the third class.”

“Yup,” Bertolt replies as the car starts to move, feeling shy again as they turn onto the main road. “Um... there’s something I need to tell you.”

“Don’t give up yet, Bertl,” Reiner immediately says, his face falling. He sighs, and then shoots Bertolt a sidelong look as they drive, the streetlights flashing and making strange moving shadows. “I mean...” he bites his lip, and then focuses back on the road, “unless you really hate it. That’s different.”

“They want me to teach the class,” Bertolt blurts out awkwardly, talking from behind his cup. “And I sort of... um, have been. I guess. Teaching it.”

The brakes practically slam on at a red light as Reiner twists his entire body to stare at Bertolt, and then a massive grin breaks out over his face.

“I told you, Bertl,” he says, and there’s an unexpected intense emotion in his expression. “You’re so talented...” he trails off, and to Bertolt’s surprise, Reiner’s voice catches. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I just... I’ve been waiting a long time for you to realize it.”

“That’s okay,” Bertolt replies in shock. “Don’t apologize. Um...”

The light turns green, and it takes a moment for Reiner to notice.

There’s a short silence, and then Reiner places his hand on Bertolt’s leg to caress his thigh affectionately, before replacing it on the steering wheel.

He clears his throat, and finally asks diplomatically, “So, do you like it?”

Bertolt looks over at him cautiously. “I think so. But...” he takes a deep breath, remembering his annoying conversation with the therapist, “if I didn’t want to do it—if I wanted to go back to the way things were—would you be disappointed?”

Reiner immediately shakes his head. “I’d never be disappointed in you,” he replies in a soft voice. “I want you to do it for yourself, but only if you want to.”

“Sometimes,” Bertolt says, biting his lip and finishing the hot chocolate, “just because you can do something, doesn’t mean you want to.”

“You seem happy,” Reiner remarks suddenly, turning onto their street.

“I am happy,” Bertolt replies. He looks over at Reiner finally, and he smiles a little. “I like cooking.”

The admission is at least a step above pretending it’s not a big deal; because Bertolt doesn’t just like cooking. He loves cooking with all of his heart, and most of all, he loves cooking for Reiner. It’s his way of pouring his own soul into something and expressing how he feels, and watching Reiner’s blissful reactions when he eats it—says it tastes like “home”—and it _is_ a big deal.

Bertolt’s revelation of the year: cooking is a big deal, and that’s okay. 

“I like cooking,” he repeats more clearly, but then his voice goes soft as they turn into the parking lot and Reiner kills the engine, letting the keys hang from the ignition as he turns to look at Bertolt. “But most of all,” he says, reaching for Reiner’s hand, “I like cooking for you.”

Reiner gives him an emotional expression, and he lifts Bertolt’s hand up to kiss his palm.

They look at each other for a moment, and hesitantly, Bertolt asks, “So... how was your day?”

“Come on,” Reiner says, getting out of the car. Bertolt follows, and as Reiner locks the door, he starts to grin. “Well, the greatest thing happened today in the stockroom.” He cocks an eyebrow and smirks at Bertolt. “But first, let me tell you a story about an idiot who made me late to clock out. I’m still—” he takes a sudden breath, cutting himself off, his jovial mood fading. But to his credit, he sets his jaw, and finishes, “...I’m still stressed about it.”

Bertolt smiles at him. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

And finally, Reiner tells Bertolt about his day—unfiltered, in all of its glory and annoyance.

He falls asleep in Bertolt’s arms, and they sleep more peacefully than they have in a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bertolt and Reiner cope with Reiner's memory loss and mental issues.
> 
> Or: Bertolt takes a cooking class and learns that love is more complex than he realized.

It becomes apparent to Bertolt very quickly that Armin Arlert is a bit of a lonely extrovert. He’s brilliant—some sort of graduate student whose thesis has stalled, although Bertolt doesn’t get all the details—and also well off from an inheritance. However, from what Bertolt can gather, Armin would also rather give all the money back if he could spend one more day with his grandfather.

Every class session reveals a little bit more information, until Bertolt realizes that he knows almost everything about Armin, and Armin knows almost nothing about him. And he appreciates the fact that he’s relatively sure this is intentional, and that Armin is giving him space. Armin is also very good at reading people.

They’re sitting side by side on the steps one evening after class, waiting for Reiner to pick Bertolt up (Armin lives only a few blocks away), when Bertolt gets the bad relationship story.

“So, basically,” Armin says as Bertolt listens, “he just needed to go and do something faraway. I think he joined the Peace Corp... and that was that. He always had to be away somehow, and even though we still loved each other, it didn’t matter. He went anyway. And that was that.” He sighs a little, leaning forward to balance on his knees in an uncharacteristically lackadaisical pose. “Well, those are the gory details. I actually took this class as something to do since I took time off from school.”

He exhales heavily, and the breath is white in the frigid air. Bertolt watches as it curls up in a fast dissipating cloud into the winter sky.

“Sorry,” Bertolt replies awkwardly when he realizes Armin is done talking. “I mean... that’s hard.”

“That’s _life_ , as the saying goes,” Armin says with a curt shrug. “But...” he gives Bertolt a hesitant sideways glance, “there’s something I want to ask you about—an idea I had.” 

Bertolt’s eyes widen curiously, and he turns to look at Armin, digging into the heavy fleece parka he’s wearing to keep warm. “What is it?”

Armin pushes the blond hair out of his face and adjusts the blue scarf he’s wearing—it makes his unsettlingly blue eyes look particularly vivid—and swallows hard.

“This might sound crazy,” he starts, his eyes wide, “but, since my grandfather passed and left me an inheritance, I decided that I don’t want to just save it. He would’ve wanted me to do something and follow a dream, so I’ve been looking for something to invest in.”

“Oh,” Bertolt replies in surprise, cocking his head to the side, “um, well, are you looking for... stock advice or something?”

Armin starts to laugh, and his voice is as clear as a crisp bell in the winter air.

“No, I mean I have an idea for one.”

“Oh,” Bertolt nods, wondering what this has to do with him, “that’s good.”

“Don’t you want to know why you’re going to think it’s crazy?” Armin says, a downright maniacal grin on his face.

Bertolt’s eyes widen, and his brow furrows. “Um, yes?”

“I want to open a restaurant.”

“That’s not crazy,” Bertolt replies with a shrug. “You could do worse... like investing in coin collecting or something.”

“You’re not understanding,” Armin says, tapping Bertolt on the shoulder. “I want to open a restaurant and have you as the head chef. Your own restaurant, Bertl.”

Bertolt’s mouth opens and shuts, and he can feel the blood drain from his face.

“Um,” he says, standing up awkwardly and stumbling a little from stiff legs, “I...”

Just then, to his relief, he sees Reiner’s car pull up in front of the building.

“I have to go!” he exclaims, pointing at the car. “I don’t know if I’m going to be back next week.” He takes a few quick awkward steps backward. “Um... or ever again.”

He turns and starts to retreat from the steps where Armin is still sitting, staring at him as if he’s lost his mind, when Bertolt shoots another look over his shoulder.

The expression on Armin’s face has gone from utter shock to a stricken look of rejection. 

“Sorry, Armin,” Bertolt says in a small voice mid-stride.

He wants to apologize and say how glad he is that they’ve become friends, how he’s flattered by the invitation, but that it also makes him want to simultaneously throw up and cry, how he feels bad that Armin is lonely, because he knows the feeling.

Instead, he barely manages to croak out a goodbye, and then practically sprints to the car, climbing in and pulling the door closed quickly. He huddles down into his jacket and crosses his arms defensively, willing Reiner to drive away as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, that tactic doesn’t seem to work as they remain stationary.

“Um, Bertl?” Reiner asks, raising an eyebrow as he looks at Bertolt. There’s no question that Reiner already knows something is up, but then there’s a knock at the fogged window from where Reiner’s been blasting the heat.

“Are you going to roll it down?” Reiner asks, staring at Bertolt incredulously.

Bertolt just shakes his head rapidly, his throat constricting, and Reiner studies him for a moment. He can almost see the gears turning in Reiner’s head, trying to figure out what’s gone wrong now.

Because something is _always_ going wrong with Bertolt’s life, and he hates himself for it.

After a few beats of silence, Reiner pats Bertolt’s shoulder reassuringly. “Okay, then I’m going to.”

Bertolt nods, letting Reiner take control, as he reaches over to unroll the window with the manual lever. 

Armin’s blue eyes peer into the car, and he looks downright ashamed when he sees the expression on Bertolt’s face.

“Um,” he starts, catching sight of Reiner, “hi. I’m Armin... Are you Reiner?”

Reiner laughs a little and sticks out his hand with a grin. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Not much... um, I just wanted to apologize.” He turns his gaze to Bertolt and raises his eyebrows, as if in a plea for forgiveness. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you.”

“It’s okay,” Bertolt mumbles, raising his eyes slightly, but only getting as far as Armin’s scarf. “Sorry—I’m not good at dealing with surprises.”

A knowing look passes over Reiner’s face in Bertolt’s peripheral vision.

“Yeah, uh, not everyone is. But... well, will you at least come back next week? Please?”

Bertolt finally forces himself to timidly meet Armin’s eyes, and he gives a tense nod. “Yeah. I’ll see you next week.”

Armin immediately looks happier. “Okay. And if you change your mind, that’s cool. If not, we never have to talk about it again. It was just an idea.”

Bertolt just nods, turning his gaze downward again to his lap, and Armin gives a parting wave.

“Nice to meet you, Reiner!” he calls.

Reiner tips two fingers and waves, and then rolls the window back up.

It’s quiet as Reiner pulls away and starts to drive, and finally, Bertolt hazards a look over at him.

“So, that’s Armin?” Reiner asks as Bertolt’s eyes fall on him.

“Yup.”

“Seems nice.”

“Uh huh.”

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Are you too hot?”

“No.”

“Are you tired?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Maybe,” Bertolt retorts, but he’s looking at Reiner now with a soft, affectionate expression. It only takes a little of Reiner’s gentle teasing to get him to relax.

“Must’ve been something big,” Reiner remarks carefully. “He really rattled you.” To take what could be a critical edge off the words, he reaches over and caresses Bertolt’s shoulder in concern. 

“Um,” Bertolt starts, wondering if he should just spit it out, “Armin wants to open a restaurant.”

Reiner smiles, darting his eyes over to Bertolt as he drives, and then back at the road. “Your cooking must have inspired him.”

“About that...”

Reiner shoots him a curious look and waits.

“He, uh...” Bertolt cringes slightly, just the thought making the panic rise again. “He wants me to be the head chef and cook.”

Reiner almost serves off the road; instead, he stops in the shoulder and puts the flashers on, grinning like a madman.

“Holy _shit_ , Bertl!” his eyes are wide and he’s beaming. “That’s amazing!”

There’s a few beats of tense silence, and then understanding slides into Reiner’s expression; Bertolt hates how his own issues always dampen moments like these.

To Bertolt’s surprise, though, Reiner stops and his face softens, turning more serious, as he takes Bertolt’s face in both hands, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against his forehead.

“Too much all at once?”

“Yeah,” Bertolt whispers, feeling ashamed of himself and his cowardice. 

“Okay,” Reiner says, settling back into his seat as he drops the topic abruptly. “C’mon, let’s just go home and relax for now. You can tell me more later if you want.” He gives Bertolt a reassuring smile. “Okay?”

Bertolt nods once, still feeling silly.

They sit there for a moment, the quiet hum of the idling car motor filling the silence, and Reiner finishes his coffee.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, Bertl,” he says softly as he shifts the car into gear and starts to pull back onto the road. “I just want you to be happy.”

“Okay,” Bertolt whispers. He knows that to any normal person, this would be the opportunity of a lifetime, and the self-hatred starts to loom until he forces the thoughts away. There’s no point in going to that dark place that he’s learned so carefully to avoid over the years.

Instead, he focuses on Reiner, and asks, “Can we drink hot chocolate and watch something really boring on TV?”

Reiner laughs as he reaches over to stroke up the back of Bertolt’s neck and into his hair.

“When did we turn eighty?” he asks in an amused voice, gently rubbing his fingers there.

“I think we’ve always been eighty,” Bertolt replies softly, but there’s a little smile in his voice now.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

They go home and watch the local news, and Bertolt falls asleep on Reiner’s shoulder on the couch. 

When he wakes up again, it’s morning, and he realizes that he’s tucked into a soft comforter. Reiner is snoring behind him—obviously having literally carried him to bed—with a hand curled protectively around his waist.

“Mm,” Reiner hums, inhaling deeply and smiling a little as his hand tightens, “Bertl... sleep good?”

Bertolt rolls over to face him and tuck his head under Reiner’s chin, and they talk quietly about the previous day’s events.

After some conversation and a few kisses, in the calm otherworldly world of their bed Bertolt concludes that the restaurant is a good idea.

= = =

“This is great!” 

There’s music playing in the front room of Armin’s rather impressively-sized apartment, where Bertolt’s coworkers and a few of Armin’s friends are mingling.

Bertolt smiles subtly and nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Thanks for hosting.”

There’s a wine sauce simmering on the stove that’s supposed to be the last dish of the evening, made fresh and from the hands of Bertolt Hoover-Braun himself. Some of the people at the potluck are also potential investors, brought by Armin and a few people in their cooking class who were more than happy to invite their affluent friends.

“So,” Armin asks, smiling with bright eyes, a glass of wine in his hand, “what’s in the mystery sauce?”

Bertolt smiles bashfully, looking down with a slight shrug. “It’s not really a mystery.”

He looks up suddenly, searching for Reiner, and then feels more at ease when he spots him in the corner, talking to Mina, the hostess at Bertolt’s restaurant.

Reiner looks up, as if he senses Bertolt’s stare, and then waves with a little smile as they make eye contact from across the room.

Bertolt waves back, smiling in return.

Reiner’s wearing a white shirt that he actually insisted on _starching_ before the party, and he’d agonized over it beforehand.

He also looks really good in his fitted jeans and white button-up, and Bertolt just wants to fall into bed with him—just to curl up close and smell his skin. It makes Bertolt feel like a teenager.

“Bertl?” Armin asks, snapping his fingers.

Bertolt blinks twice in surprise, focusing on Armin.

“Oh,” he says, laughing softly, “sorry.”

“So, does this need to simmer?”

Bertolt turns quickly, looking at the sauce in concern. The heat’s a little too high, and he turns it down immediately. Armin’s stainless steel stove is fancier than the uneven burners he’s used to at home.

He laughs a little. “No worries.”

And just at that moment, Armin leans over him to look at the sauce, and places two hands on his hips.

“I’m sure it’s still excellent.”

His fingers flex gently, and Bertolt stiffens.

There’s a few beats of tense realization, until Bertolt freezes, and Armin jumps back.

“I’m sorry!” he sputters as Bertolt spins around to stare. “I... I’m sorry. It’ll never happen again.”

And just at that moment, Bertolt turns his head to see Reiner, standing in the doorway, gaping at them.

Bertolt means to say Reiner’s name, but all that comes out is a whoosh of breath.

And then he’s gone in seconds, turned on his heel and disappeared.

“Shit,” Armin hisses. “Bertolt, I’m so sorry...”

Bertolt immediately crosses his arms over his chest and shakes his head, trying not to cry.

“It’s not your fault,” he replies in a hushed voice, and then leaves the kitchen to follow.

But then, just as he’s mid-step, Reiner’s there. He catches Bertolt’s shoulder and says softly, “Just enjoy yourself. I’ll be here until the party’s over.”

There’s something about the words that makes Bertolt’s heart stop—as if Reiner means he’ll only be there until the party’s over—and then not after. 

“Okay,” he replies, his voice wavering.

Reiner just shrugs, and turns away; Bertolt can tell, though, from the way his shoulders tense that he’s not okay at all.

The party lasts for far too long, but no one seems to notice the tension between Reiner, Bertolt, and Armin. Instead, everyone is groaning in satisfaction at Bertolt’s food and pledging funds to open the restaurant.

Finally, when it ends, Reiner just says softly, “I’ll warm up the car,” and leaves.

The apartment is empty, and Bertolt feels dizzy.

“Bertolt?” Armin says softly, his voice absolutely raw. “I’m so sorry.”

Bertolt sighs, bending to pick up a stray plastic cup off the floor. “Thanks, but it’s not your fault. I understand.”

Armin gives a sharp nod, and he looks like he’s going to cry.

“I’ll clean up,” he says softly. “Why don’t you go down to your husband.”

Bertolt nods slowly, and retrieves his jacket.

The ride home is painfully silent. It gets even worse when they hit three long red lights in a row, and just wait at the intersection without saying a word.

The hurt radiating off Reiner is so painful by the time they pull into the parking lot of their apartment complex, that Bertolt can hardly even stand being in the car anymore.

“Here,” Reiner says tonelessly as they climb out, “I’ll carry the leftovers.”

Bertolt just stares helplessly at him as he hands over the tupperware with the leftovers, and Reiner walks quickly ahead toward the stairwell.

Once they’re inside, things aren’t much better as Reiner quickly shoves them into the refrigerator and throws his jacket over the back of the couch.

Bertolt just stares at the floor, feeling faint, and slowly takes his jacket off to hang it on a peg next to the door.

They just stand there in silence for a few moments, until suddenly, Reiner speaks.

“Do you remember that thing?” he says. “About an open relationship?”

“What?” Bertolt immediately replies, his eyes wide. He feels his entire body tense up with adrenaline, and he just stares at Reiner.

“I know at the time I was misunderstanding what you were saying,” Reiner says in a weary voice, standing up and looking at the floor, “but... if you want that, it’d be okay. I mean...” he sighs. “We haven’t had sex in five months. If you want to—” Reiner cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “If you want to see other people, fuck other people—whatever—um, yeah. It’s cool.”

He turns away and heads toward the bedroom with a shrug; and it’s that tiny shrug that tips Bertolt over the edge.

The way Reiner’s shoulders bunch and drop—dismissive and quick—as if this idea is an easy fix that he thinks Bertolt will jump on. Or maybe he just doesn’t care anymore, and has given up on their entire relationship—their entire _marriage._

And for the first time, Bertolt feels angry enough to raise his voice.

“Well, _fine!_ ” he shouts as he watches Reiner’s retreating form. He can already feel the tears tracking down his face as Reiner disappears into their bedroom without another word. “Let’s just get a fucking divorce while we’re at it!”

Bertolt feels guilt choking him as the words pour out of his mouth, but he’s past caring.

“Why don’t you forget me, too? Like you forgot everything else?” he cries hoarsely, forcing the words out through a sob.

He hasn’t realized he’s collapsed to the floor until he registers the hard wood under his knees, and then lets out a wretched noise. There’s another, and another, until he’s sobbing uncontrollably; and there’s no one there to help him up, to tell him it’s okay.

He also realizes Reiner hasn’t replied, and finally, he forces himself up onto his feet to head toward the bedroom.

Reiner is lying on the bed, his face pressed into the comforter as his shoulders shake silently, muffling the sounds as he cries.

He’s in so much pain; and Bertolt realizes finally just how much Reiner has really shouldered.

“I’m sorry,” Bertolt says softly. “I’m so sorry.”

“I guess we’re even,” Reiner whispers as he turns his head slightly, wiping at his eyes. “From that time I said that you blowing me was disgusting.”

Bertolt feels tears on his face again as he shakes his head. “Why do you still remember that?” his voice is choked. “Why do you hold onto things like that?”

Reiner just shakes his head, and lets out a pathetic little sob.

Bertolt takes a deep breath and fights to stop crying. “Do you really want an open relationship?”

Reiner shudders, but then, shakes his head.

“Is that a no?”

“I just don’t want to hold you back,” Reiner croaks.

“Reiner,” Bertolt whispers, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “Come here,” he says, moving to lie down and motion for Reiner to come closer.

He hesitates, but Bertolt just keeps his hand out and lies down on the pillow, waiting.

Finally, he does, and Bertolt wraps his arm around Reiner tightly.

“I don’t want that,” he says softly. “I don’t want any of that. I don’t even want you to get better—I just want you to be happy. Okay?”

Reiner sniffles a little, but he nods.

“I’ll always take care of you,” Bertolt whispers, rocking Reiner a little. “Even if you forget your own name, and mine, I’ll wake up with you every day, and I’ll tell you everything you’ve forgotten—our entire lives—until it’s time to fall asleep again. And then, I’ll be there with you, too.”

“Why are you so good to me?” Reiner whispers through his own tears.

Bertolt draws back, cups Reiner’s face, and replies softly, “Reiner, never ask me that again.”

They stare at each other, until Reiner whispers, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, but don’t ask me things like that.”

Reiner knows it’s his own words shot back at him—they both do.

“This is it,” Bertolt says softly as they break apart, “just you and me. There’s nothing after this, and there’s nothing before it.”

Reiner just nods, and then clings to Bertolt. Bertolt shushes him, rubbing circles over his back.

A tenuous peace settles over them, and fatigue forces them apart to get ready for bed.

When they climb in, Bertolt shushes Reiner as he starts to cry quietly all over again, kissing his hair and telling him to close his eyes.

And finally, Reiner falls asleep, clinging to Bertolt like a lifeline he’s afraid of losing if he lets go for too long.

= = =

The clock is extra loud, and it’s making Bertolt’s head hurt.

“I’d like to disclose one thing before we talk,” Reiner’s therapist starts, his voice serious.

That gets Bertolt’s attention, and he sits up straighter in the tiny chair.

“Okay,” he replies clearly, raising an eyebrow. He tries not to, but he can’t stop the way his eyes immediately drop to the floor and he starts to fidget with his sweater.

“Reiner has given me complete permission to share everything in our session today, if it’s relevant.”

“Um... okay,” Bertolt repeats uncertainly. He takes a deep, silent breath and lets it out slowly. 

“And,” the therapist continues, crossing his legs and adjusting his glasses, “anything _you_ say to me will be held in the strictest of confidence. Reiner has also agreed to this.”

There’s a short tense silence, until Bertolt finally murmurs, “Um, like, legally?”

“No,” he replies. “We don’t have a doctor-patient relationship. However, I am hoping you’ll take me at my word.”

“Fine,” Bertolt replies in a flat voice.

“All right,” the therapist nods in approval.

Bertolt realizes the notepad is nowhere to be found, and he narrows his eyes. 

“Where’s your _notepad?_ ” he asks suspiciously.

The therapist gives a humorless smile, and points at the drawer. “In there. This is ‘off the record,’ if you will.”

Bertolt isn’t sure what to make of any of this, so he just blinks and shrugs. “Uh...” he laces his fingers together to try and force himself to stop fidgeting. “Okay.”

“I need to ask you something, and I need you to answer honestly. There is no judgment here, Bertolt, but I need to get the full picture of what’s going on in your home. All right?”

Bertolt gives a curt nod, and continues to stare at the carpet. It’s a really ugly area rug with big multicolored blocks; it looks expensive, too.

“Are you having an affair?”

The clock ticks twice more—sharp and unforgiving—and something erupts in Bertolt’s head. 

“Fuck off,” he growls, finally looking up to stare at the therapist. 

The object of his rage looks unmoved, and just waits.

Bertolt’s hands loosen; his fingers outstretch, his shoulders drop, and he sits up very straight, meeting the therapist’s eyes.

“Who the hell are you?” he demands, pointing an accusatory finger. “What do you know about us?”

“I don’t know,” the therapist replies, casually crossing his legs and folding his hands. “You tell me.”

“Let’s start with our fucked up childhood, huh?” he growls. The aggression is unfamiliar, but not completely unwelcome. “First of all, it was _ours._ We shared it, just like we share everything. And second, yeah, it was pretty god awful.”

He can feels the tears pricking his eyes, but he doesn’t care. 

“But that’s why I’m fucked up. Not Reiner. Reiner’s fucked up because I always need to be taken care of, and he can’t ever tell me what he really thinks. He’s fucked up because all I’ve done my entire life is whine and be afraid of everything. He’s fucked up,” Bertolt practically shouts, his voice cracking, “because he married _me._ ”

He falls back into the too-small-chair and covers his face. “He could’ve been with someone better, who’s not afraid of everything. Someone who can take care of him and love him the way he deserves. Not me.”

Bertolt starts to cry, hiding his face even as the sobs wrack his body.

“Bertolt,” comes the soft voice.

“What?” he snaps through his tears, sniffling.

He doesn’t move when he hears the therapist get up out of his chair and come to stand nearby; there’s a comforting pat on the shoulder, but somehow, it’s not pitying.

“This is a turning point.”

“Why?” he croaks hoarsely. 

“Because this is the first time you’ve ever asserted yourself,” the therapist says. Then after a few beats, asks calmly, “How does it feel?”

Bertolt blinks through the tears, and he shakes his head. “Awful.”

There’s a wry laugh—although it’s not so much a laugh as a pensive sound—and Bertolt feels a box of tissues nudging his arm.

He wordlessly accepts it, taking one out to wipe his tears away and blow his nose.

“Are you having an affair?” the therapist repeats the question quietly.

“No,” Bertolt replies after a few beats of silence. “Does Reiner think I am?” he asks, staring again at the floor. 

“He’s not sure,” is the simple reply, but it cuts Bertolt to the core all over again.

“Is he mad?” Bertolt whispers, fighting to keep his lip from wobbling.

“No,” the therapist replies. “I don’t think so. He feels...”

“Guilty?” Bertolt finishes knowingly, his stomach twisting. 

To his surprise, however, the answer isn’t what he expects.

“No, not guilty. He feels... inferior.”

That gets Bertolt’s attention, and he looks up in surprise. “Inferior? To who?”

“To you and... your friend,” the therapist says carefully, then tentatively turns toward the drawer. “May I?”

Bertolt scowls, sniffling a little, but nods his permission nonetheless.

The drawer squeaks open as the dreaded notepad is pulled out, and the therapist adjusts his glasses. “Your friend...” He drags his finger down the paper, reading silently to himself, until he finds it. “Armin. Is that him?”

_“Armin?”_

“Yes,” the therapist says as he closes the pad and slides it back into the drawer. “Is that your new friend?”

“Um, yeah,” Bertolt confirms, baffled now more than anything else. He would’ve expected jealousy, guilt, or some other undeserved emotion that Reiner had inflicted on himself... but inferior?

“But... why?”

That gets the therapist’s attention, and he actually quirks an eyebrow.

“Why? Well, he mentioned that you have things in common with Armin.”

“Um, like what?”

“Cooking, for one,” he says with a shrug.

“Cooking?” Bertolt echoes, his eyes wide.

“That’s what Reiner said. That was his first word, in fact.” 

“But anyone can cook,” Bertolt says in surprise. “It’s not special.”

“Bertolt,” the therapist remarks softly, as if testing the waters, “I think all of three of us know that’s not true when it comes to you. So let’s just move on, shall we?”

Bertolt’s mouth snaps shut, and he looks at the therapist with wide eyes. He’s right, though.

“Okay,” he says, nodding a little. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, but let’s try to make some real progress. He said Armin is also... how did he put it?” There’s a short stint of silence as he thinks, and then looks at Bertolt again. “I think the word he used was ‘classy.’”

“Armin? Classy?”

Well, Bertolt supposes Armin is classy, in his own buttoned-up prep school way.

“That’s what he said.”

“What else?” Bertolt asks curiously, his former anxiety gone.

“Smart.”

“Uh, yeah, Armin’s smart. But so is Reiner.”

“Worldly.”

“Reiner actually used the description ‘worldly?’” Bertolt remarks skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like him.”

“He was looking for a word, and I suggested that one, which seemed to fit the bill of what he was trying to say. He thinks Armin is more sophisticated. And so are you now.”

Bertolt makes a skeptical face, his eyebrows raised.

“Try to look at it from Reiner’s point of view,” the therapist suggests, his voice diplomatic. Bertolt is less skeptical, though, at the mention of Reiner. “As a couple, you haven’t engaged in a physical relationship for quite some time.” Bertolt immediately blushes and looks down. “Reiner is working part-time in a stockroom he’s been at for six years, while you’re discovering a world-class talent and being invited to open restaurants by people like Armin. You have new friends and admirers.”

Bertolt feels sick by the time the therapist is done talking. Finally, he says very quietly, “And Reiner feels left out.”

“In a word,” the therapist says diplomatically, “yes.”

Bertolt nods and bites his lip, his eyes starting to burn again as he looks down.

“Do you think there was something specific that led him to believe you might be engaging in an extramarital affair?”

Bertolt doesn’t even bother to deny it, and replies softly, “We had a party, and Armin was flirting with me in the kitchen. Reiner walked in on it,” he sighs unhappily. “Nothing happened, and Armin apologized. He went through bad break-up and...” He shakes his head and repeats, “Nothing happened.”

“Did you want something to happen?”

“I never considered it,” he retorts immediately, looking up in shock and outrage.

The therapist gives him a long, evaluating look before speaking. “I want you to do something, Bertolt.”

“What?” Bertolt asks suspiciously, frowning.

“I want you to consider it.” The therapist holds up his hand before Bertolt can sputter in outrage. “I don’t mean literally... I mean, I want you to think about it. I want you to think about what you really want. You need to be honest with yourself, so you can be honest with Reiner.”

Bertolt is so close to telling him off again; but then he can’t fault that logic. It’s true—Reiner deserves honesty.

“So... what the hell does that mean?” he finally asks, pulling his sleeves down over his hands. The action doesn’t go unnoticed as the therapist raises an eyebrow, his eye strained on Bertolt’s hand, but he doesn’t comment. 

“Just think about it. That’s it. See what happens. Let the thought enter your mind and then deal with it,” comes the infuriatingly calm voice. “Trust me, Bertolt... it’s going to eventually anyway, whether you like it or not. Not as a desire, necessarily, but as a possibility.”

“Fine,” Bertolt says with a dry throat. “Can I at least tell Reiner I’m not cheating on him?”

“Yes,” the therapist agrees, nodding his head. “I think that’s an appropriate conclusion to this talk.”

When Bertolt leaves the office, Reiner immediately looks up in concern where he’s leaning against the wall with his arm crossed tensely; Bertolt realizes he must look terrible with tear tracks down his face and bloodshot eyes.

He doesn’t say anything; just walks across the empty waiting room and wraps his arms around Reiner in a tight hug.

“I’d never cheat on you,” he murmurs, kissing Reiner’s ear. “Never.”

The door to the therapist’s office shuts quietly as Reiner lets out a stifled sob and buries his face against Bertolt’s neck.

They stand there for a long time with their arms around each other, and Bertolt lays his head against Reiner’s shoulder.

“You’re really classy, Reiner,” he whispers after a while, his voice still hoarse from crying.

Reiner’s arms tighten around him momentarily, and a quiet laugh makes it way out of his throat in a rumble.

“Let’s go home,” he murmurs.

= = =

The days go by as they always have. Bertolt goes with Armin to scope out different locations for the restaurant, and Bertolt cooks for potential investors. It’s an exhausting schedule, but it keeps him busy. And regardless of their awkward moment in the kitchen, Armin sticks to his word and never lets any flirtatious behavior happen again.

Bertolt even invites Reiner to come with them and get his opinion on different locations. For the most part, Reiner just looks at the different buildings cluelessly as Armin talks about prewar moldings and original woodwork. But he always includes Reiner in the discussion, which Bertolt appreciates. Armin really is a good, loyal friend, and he’s glad they met.

What Reiner is good at, though, is the common sense side of things.

There was one afternoon when both Bertolt and Armin were almost completely in agreement on a final location and ready to sign a lease, when Reiner had pointed out that no one had passed the building for the entire hour they’d been there.

Armin called Reiner a genius—in all earnestness—and that had gotten a smile. Bertolt had smiled, too, and held Reiner’s hand on their way back to the car.

But regardless of the peace on the surface, Bertolt sees the way Armin looks at him; it’s a little melancholy, like looking at something beautiful from faraway that he knows he can’t have. Bertolt pretends he’s oblivious, even though he’s not, and Reiner’s therapist’s words resound in his head.

The bastard had been right.

So, Bertolt decides to take his advice one night and think about it. Really face it head-on—something Bertolt is terrible at—and “consider” it.

It’s been a long day, but a good one. They’d scouted out at least three different promising locations, and finally, it seemed they were about to make a decision. Bertolt still feels a little guilty for letting Armin pay for everything, but it’s a project he wants to do. 

He sighs in relief as the hot water washes over his shoulders. He has to bend a little to get the right angle because he’s so tall, and he starts to let his mind wander as he lathers up his hair and he closes his eyes.

Bertolt’s always liked standing with his eyes closed in a hot shower; it was one of the only things that ever made him feel like he had the space to think. He does it now, pondering what he’s considering doing, rinsing the shampoo out of his hair.

He knows Reiner’s in the kitchen—ironically, cooking dinner, since Bertolt is too tired—and there’s low risk of being caught. Not that Reiner would ever know he’s doing something wrong—and maybe he’s technically not—but despite the guilt, he has to do it.

He uses some old-fashioned bar soap and slicks up his hand, and reaches down to slowly start to stroke himself.

And he pictures Armin; what it would be like to have Armin standing there with him in the shower, jerking him off.

Armin would probably kiss him a lot, say nice things about him, most likely be pretty good in bed, too. Bertolt lets his eyes slip shut, and thinks about what it would be like to have Armin on his knees, sucking Bertolt’s cock, touching his hips with gentle fingers.

He’d wrap his hand in that blond hair and _pull_ , groan, beg for Armin to fuck him, to tie him up.

And it’s just all wrong. It’s all so ridiculous that he can’t even keep his erection, and he’s already soft.

He takes a deep breath, and then pictures Reiner—pictures the first time Reiner held onto him so he couldn’t move, the first time he fucked Bertolt into the mattress, the first time he’d tied Bertolt up and made him cry, never letting up until Bertolt safe worded out.

Bertolt is halfway to coming, using his forearm pressed against the shower wall to balance himself while his other hand jerks at his cock desperately. There’s a sob forming in his throat—almost relief—because it’s the thought of Reiner that still makes him feel those things.

“Bertl?” comes a knock at the bathroom door.

Bertolt groans out a response and tries to get it together, but he’s a mess—torn between wanting to cry and come at the same time.

He hears the door squeak open and he knows Reiner’s peeking his head in.

“Are you okay?” comes the worried voice, as if he can sense Bertolt’s distress from two rooms away.

“Yeah,” Bertolt croaks, trying to sound normal as he pulls his hand away from his cock.

The door opens fully, and Bertolt knows he’s been caught. Caught doing _what_ he’s not sure, but caught doing something he’s trying to hide from Reiner.

“Can I open the curtain?”

“Um...”

Bertolt takes a deep breath, and does it for him.

“Hey,” Reiner says softly, his voice soothing, but then his eyes widen as they dart down to Bertolt’s half-hard cock and the look on his face.

He doesn’t even ask as Bertolt stands there with fresh tears welling in his eyes; Reiner just turns off the shower and gets a towel to wrap around him.

“Come on,” he says gently, guiding Bertolt out of the shower. “It’s okay.”

Bertolt just sniffles a little and shakes his head, but allows Reiner to lead him into the bedroom.

“Lie down,” he says, his voice still soothing as he directs Bertolt to lie down on his back.

Bertolt heaves a shuddery sigh, but does as asked, his eyes closing tightly as Reiner lies down next to him.

His head tips back almost automatically as Reiner presses a soft, slow kiss against his jaw, his hand sliding over Bertolt’s ribs down to his hip. It’s not a touch with intent, so much as touching just for the sake of it.

He smells like the Reiner Bertolt’s always known—aftershave, a little sweat, and laundry detergent—and Bertolt closes his eyes as Reiner’s arms wrap around him, shushing him and kissing his wet hair.

He tugs at Reiner’s t-shirt, getting his hands underneath. Reiner takes the hint, pulling it off over his head easily and tossing it to the side.

Bertolt presses against him, needing the reassuring feeling of skin against his own, to get as close as possible, almost feeling like he wants to curl into Reiner’s center where his heart is.

“Bertl...” Reiner murmurs in a soft, concerned voice.

“Just want you close,” Bertolt replies in a whisper.

“Okay,” Reiner agrees without asking any more questions, and keeps his arms securely around Bertolt.

After a moment, he leans forward slowly to press a soft kiss against Bertolt’s lips.

Bertolt closes his eyes, a few tears tracking down his cheeks, and Reiner doesn’t say anything; he just pushes Bertolt onto his back to kiss down to his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” he asks.

Bertolt nods, closing his eyes and resting his hand against the back of Reiner’s head. “Yeah,” he murmurs, “but you don’t have to.” 

“I know,” Reiner replies softly, reaching up to wipe the stray tears away from Bertolt’s face. “I want to.”

Bertolt gives a shuddery sigh and meets Reiner’s eyes. “If you never wanted to again,” he says, “I’d never leave you. I’d never cheat on you.”

Reiner sighs. “I wouldn’t want you to live like that,” he says, shaking his head and taking Bertolt’s hand. “You’ve always been more...” he smiles a little, his expression wistful, “adventurous than me, and you like sex.”

Bertolt laughs a little wryly, shaking his head; there’s an edge of a sob there, too, though.

“But...” Reiner starts softly.

Bertolt is expecting Reiner to offer up some sacrifice, some grandiose self-effacing gesture, like he always does.

Instead, though, he takes Bertolt’s hand, laces their fingers together, and says, “We’ll work through it. Together.”

Bertolt’s eyes widen a little, and then he nods. “Together,” he echoes.

Reiner lies down close again, pulling Bertolt against him, and murmurs, “Right now, I just want to kiss you a little. Is that okay?”

Bertolt smiles a little bit, and for the first time in months, it’s not bittersweet. “I’d really like that,” he murmurs. 

Reiner presses kisses against Bertolt’s neck and shoulders for a long time, exploring his skin and collarbones as if they’ve never even touched each other.

For the first time in a long time, Bertolt falls asleep first, his face pressed against Reiner’s chest, protected by two strong arms. 

But now, Bertolt knows that if he’s needed, Reiner will wake him up and ask for help. 

Bertolt is done with consideration.

= = =

“Reiner tells me he made you breakfast.”

Bertolt smiles a little, looking at the floor. He’s opted to sit in one of the other larger chairs that will actually accommodate his height, and crosses his legs.

“Yeah. I taught him how to make an omelette. He didn’t know how... he was always too nervous to ask.”

“Was it good?”

Bertolt looks up and laughs a little. “He put way too much hot sauce in and the yolk was runny,” he says, shaking his head with a smile. “And it was the best omelet I’ve ever tasted.”

The therapist smiles at him—the first time Bertolt’s ever seen him smile—and nods.

“I don’t think Reiner needs to come to see me every week anymore. Once a month should suffice.”

“Did he agree to that?” Bertolt says, feeling panicked suddenly. “But... what if...”

“He’s doing much better,” the therapist reassures him. “There’s only so much that talk therapy can do, and since he doesn’t want to do medication, all that’s left is to see how he does on his own.”

“He hasn’t had any episodes recently,” Bertolt admits quietly. “And... he tells me about the shitty parts of his day.”

And just like that, the weekly visits are scaled back to once a month. Bertolt no longer even has to go to the after meetings with the therapist, and he actually thanks him, if in his own grumbly way since he still despises therapists and social workers on principle.

On their way home, it’s quiet, but peaceful. Reiner is talking about how he thinks the lease that Armin’s about to sign is a great location, periodically patting Bertolt’s leg in his affectionate way, until Bertolt interjects.

“I don’t want to open a restaurant,” he blurts out abruptly.

Reiner turns to outright stare at him, his mouth hanging open, and they almost get hit by a truck.

He actually pulls the car over and looks at Bertolt with wide, concerned eyes.

“Bertl,” he starts, sporting a mortified expression, “why not? You’ve been so excited.”

“I...” Bertolt starts, staring down into his lap. He goes to pull his sleeves over his hands, but then stops, forcing his fingers to relax and raises his head. His jaw is set as he forces out the words, “I want to go to culinary school.”

He’s prepared to explain; but all Reiner does is lean over the armrest, twine his fingers in Bertolt’s hair, and kiss his forehead.

“Okay.”

And that’s that. Just like when they got married—it’s simple and uncomplicated and Reiner accepts Bertolt for who he is and what he wants.

“Don’t cry, Bertl,” Reiner says in surprise as Bertolt’s eyes fill with tears, reaching up to brush his thumb over Bertolt’s cheek. “I think you’ll do great at culinary school.” 

“I love you,” he whispers, catching Reiner’s hand. 

Reiner squeezes his hand in return and smiles. “I’m really glad you finally figured it out.”

“Figured what out?” Bertolt asks softly.

“That you’re talented,” Reiner replies, lifting Bertolt’s hand to his lips to press a kiss there, “and special.”

“I’m glad I figured it out, too,” he practically whispers.

Something in Reiner’s eyes tells him that the double meaning of the words aren’t lost.

“So, now that we’ve figured everything out, why don’t you teach me to make an omelette that isn’t runny?”

Bertolt pulls his hand away and swats Reiner in the arm. “Hey! I told you it was good!”

“You’re full of it, Mr. Hoover-Braun,” Reiner retorts, pulling the car away from the shoulder of the road and grinning. “Don’t take pity on your poor, clueless husband.”

“Fine. I’ll teach you to be a gastric expert.”

“Bertl, I don’t care how famous you get, but I’ll never get used to the word ‘gastric.’”

“Fair.”

Reiner looks over, smiling, and reaches over to open the glove compartment for his sunglasses.

“I’m ready for a life of fame and fortune,” he declares, sliding them on.

“Those are fucking terrible,” Bertolt says, smiling. “Are you okay to drive?”

Reiner smiles back at Bertolt. 

“Yeah,” he says, pulling back onto the road. “I’m okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit late, but final part! :D I think I've got about two one shots left in me for this universe. Thank you for reading! Comments greatly appreciated. O_O;;


End file.
